Poete te famshem dhe poezite e tyre

[StormAngel]

XLIII

if there are any heavens my mother will (all by herself) have
one. It will not be a pansy heaven nor
a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but
it will be a heaven of blackred roses

my father will be (deep like a rose
tall like a rose)

standing near my

(swaying over her
silent)
with eyes which are really petals and see

nothing with the face of a poet really which
is a flower and not a face with
hands
which whisper
This is my beloved my

(suddenly in sunlight

he will bow,

& the whole garden will bow)


- e. e. cummings

[StormAngel]

Pretty Words


Poets make pets of pretty, docile words:
I love smooth words, like gold-enamelled fish
Which circle slowly with a silken swish,
And tender ones, like downy-feathered birds:
Words shy and dappled, deep-eyed deer in herds,
Come to my hand, and playful if I wish,
Or purring softly at a silver dish,
Blue Persian kittens fed on cream and curds.

I love bright words, words up and singing early;
Words that are luminous in the dark, and sing;
Warm lazy words, white cattle under trees;
I love words opalescent, cool, and pearly,
Like midsummer moths, and honied words like bees,
Gilded and sticky, with a little sting.


Elinor Wylie

[StormAngel]

Lost

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you,
If you leave it you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.


David Wagoner

[StormAngel]

Decalogue of the Artist


I. You shall love beauty, which is the shadow of God
over the Universe.

II.There is no godless art. Although you love not the
Creator, you shall bear witness to Him creating His likeness.

III.You shall create beauty not to excite the senses
but to give sustenance to the soul.

IV. You shall never use beauty as a pretext for luxury
and vanity but as a spiritual devotion.

V. You shall not seek beauty at carnival or fair
or offer your work there, for beauty is virginal
and is not to be found at carnival or fair.

VI. Beauty shall rise from your heart in song,
and you shall be the first to be purified.

VII.The beauty you create shall be known
as compassion and shall console the hearts of men.

VIII.You shall bring forth your work as a mother
brings forth her child: out of the blood of your heart.

IX. Beauty shall not be an opiate that puts you
to sleep but a strong wine that fires you to action,
for if you fail to be a true man or a true woman,
you will fail to be an artist.

X. Each act of creation shall leave you humble,
for it is never as great as your dream and always
inferior to that most marvelous dream of God
which is Nature.


- Gabriela Mistral

[KoTeLja_VL]

I Should Not Dare
I should not dare to leave my friend,
Because if he should die
While I was gone and I too late,
Should reach the heart that wanted me,

If I should disappoint the eyes
That hunted, hunted so, to see
And could not bear to shut until
He noticed me, he noticed me,

If I should stab the patient faith
So sure I’d come so sure I’d come
It listening, listening went to sleep
Reciting my tardy name.

My heart would wish it broke before
Since breaking then, since breaking then,
Is useless as next morning’s sun
To erase a midnight’s tear.

Emily Dickinson

http://www.angelfire.com/poetry/yourpage/dickinson.jpg

[KoTeLja_VL]

If You Were Coming In The Fall
If you were coming in the fall
I’d brush the summer by
With half a smile and half a spurn
As housewives do a fly.

If I could see you in a year
I’d wind the months in balls
And put them into separate drawers
Until their time befalls.

If only centuries delayed
I’d count them on my hand
Subtracting ‘till my fingers dropped
Into Van Diemen’s land

If certain when this life was out
That yours and mine should be
I’d toss life yonder like a rind
And taste eternity.

But now all ignorant of length,
Of times uncertain wing,
It goads me like the goblin bee
That will not state its sting!

Emily Dickinson

[KoTeLja_VL]

I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You
I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.

I love you only because it's you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.

In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.

Pablo Neruda

http://www.angelfire.com/poetry/yourpage/neruda.jpg

[KoTeLja_VL]

If You Forget Me
If You Forget Me
I want you to know one thing.
You know how this is: if
I look at the crystal moon,
At the red branch of the
Slow autumn at my window,
If I touch near the fire
The impalpable ash or the
Wrinkled body of the log,
Everything carries me to you,
As if everything that exists:
Aromas, light, metals,
Were little boats that sail
Toward those isles of yours
That wait for me.

Well, now, if little by little
You stop loving me I shall
Stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly you forget me do not look for me,
For I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
The wind of banners that passes
Through my life, and you decide
To leave me at the shore of the heart
Where I have roots,
Remember that on that day, at that hour,
I shall lift my arms and my roots will
Set off to seek another land.

But if each day, each hour,
You feel that you are destined for me
With implacable sweetness,
If each day a flower climbs up
To your lips to seek me, ah my love,
Ah my own, in me all that fire is repeated,
In me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
My love feeds on your love, beloved,
And as long as you live it will be
In your arms without leaving mine.

Pablo Neruda

[KoTeLja_VL]

The Dead Butterfly
Farewell, poor little winged flower,
Thy joyous life is o'er;
Thy sisters of the meadow now
Shall welcome thee no more;
Those pinions that in liquid air
Like sunbeams shone afar,
Now bruised, and dim, and motionless,
As leaves in autumn are.

Hark! summer sends her voice of love
Through all the gladsome earth,
And bird and insect echo her
In many a song of mirth;
But thou wilt never hear again
The zephyr's balmy sighs,
Nor kiss away the crystal tears
From drooping violet's eyes.

Oh! when o'er valley, hill, and grove,
The moonbeams glisten bright,
And all the fairy train come forth,
To dance away the night,
Mayst thou, poor little butterfly,
Among that elfin band,
Sport in the everblooming bowers
Of faroff fairyland

Peter John Allan

[KoTeLja_VL]

Remember
Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad


Christine Rossetti

When I Am Dead
When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me:
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain;
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget